


A Midsummer Knight's Dream

by JK_Rowling_Eat_My_Entire_Ass



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Agravaine Suffers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friendship, Genderfluid Character, Light Angst, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Merlin is a Little Shit, Politics, Shapeshifting, Temporarily Unrequited Love, as he Deserves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26358034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JK_Rowling_Eat_My_Entire_Ass/pseuds/JK_Rowling_Eat_My_Entire_Ass
Summary: The King of Camelot, marrying a serving girl? Naturally, it’s causing quite a scandal. Tensions between nobility and commoners are rising, while the lucky couple plan the most bombastic celebration Camelot has ever seen. As Morgana schemes with a long-lost love, and Merlin goes on a gender-bender of his own, can Arthur and Guinevere make it to their nuptials intact?This is a rewrite of Lancelot Du Lac, where love spells abound, and nobody dies!
Relationships: Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	1. Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone confused by the tags— not to worry, I hate shitty love triangles as much as the next asshole. I love everybody; everybody is gay, and they'll figure themselves out eventually.

The silence in the council chambers was deafening. So much so that Arthur reckoned he could hear the thoughts churning away in his councillor’s heads; suspicion lurking behind an oiled mustache, disapproval in the arched circumflex of a brow. Standing at the head of the table with all eyes on him, Arthur fought the urge to laugh— _You’d think I’d just announced a declaration of war, not my own engagement._ Still he clenched his jaw and steeled himself as he would in battle, better to shield himself from the volley of criticism that was sure to be launched his way.

As Arthur’s senior and only family, it generally fell to Agravaine to smooth over relations between him and the more traditional members of the nobility; a role for which Arthur was ever-grateful. For some reason though, this latest pronouncement seemed to leave his uncle stumped, and gaping like a fish. “My lord, this is…” his brow pinched, the man clearly wrestling with some inner turmoil, ”This is most inappropriate…” he concluded, trailing off as lamely as he begun.

At the very least his uncle’s words seemed to break the ice for the other councillors, and suddenly the room was as rowdy as the town market; each man trying to lodge their complaints simultaneously.

“It simply isn’t done, my lord—”

“But what kind of precedent does it set—”

“And the royal bloodline? Your ancestors were _conquerors,_ not _peasants_ —”

“Sire, we all have our places for a _reason—_ ”

Arthur held up a hand to silence them. “I know that its an unprecedented match. But I’m afraid my mind is quite made up,” he declared. “Guinevere is smart and capable. She will make a great queen, and any child of ours will be heir to the throne. Besides, a wise man once told me that a king should know when to follow his heart.” Arthur placed a hand over his chest; voice gentling, he said, “I know this. I know it like I know my own name. My heart lies with her.”

Something of his earnestness must have got through, as their tempers quieted, most of the older men fixing him an considering look. 

It was the grizzled Lord Caradoc— senior commander and one of Uther’s men, who cleared his throat to speak next. Caradoc’s family held the western region of Gwent, a miserable place, but pockmarked with lucrative iron mines. The man himself was iron; dressed in a drab blue-grey doublet, the simplicity of his clothing belied it’s quality, which could rival the royal seamstress’ best work. On his fingers he wore iron rings inlaid with onyx and emeralds, and when he moved, Arthur often thought that he could hear the tinkling of a hidden vest of mail.

Once the lord was sure all attention was on him, he began, “A ruler’s heart ought to lie with the good of the kingdom, young king.” Arthur bristled at his condescending tone –– _young? Are you trying to make me look foolish? ––_ but the lord carried on, tapping his bejeweled fingers on the table, “As such, a wise king’s betrothal is not just a matter of the heart, but a matter of the state.”

Slippery as the man could be, at least Arthur was prepared for pushback. “I have made, and continue to make, alliances with our neighbors. Since my ascension this year I have treated with Caerleon, and plan to open a trade route to Nemeth as well. When our shared interest in cooperation, there is no need for an exchange of vows.”

“Forgive me, your highness, but the interests of men are… flighty,” Caradoc fixed him with a significant look. “A marriage is security. Besides,” the lord gestured to the other councillors, “While you have our respect, others may take this as a slight. Or worse… a weakness. Such a thing would never be permitted in Uther’s time.”

_Curse you, old man. Am I to be forever haunted by my father’s ghost?_ Arthur took in the room: several of his councillors — although thankfully not Agravaine — were nodding approval at Caradoc’s words. In a shadowed corner, Merlin stood with his arms folded, and glared at the lord with an intensity that suggested at attempt to incinerate him with his mind. If anyone else caught sight of him there could be trouble, but Arthur was grateful for his presence nonetheless. _At least I have one friend in this room. Soon I will have two._

Arthur took a deep breath and drew himself to his full height, “I am not my father,” he declared. “It takes strength to stay true to oneself, our allies will see this.”

_“_ And what of your enemies? _”_ came Caradoc’s sly response.

“Should my enemies think me a fool?” asked Arthur. “Let them. People are altogether too trusting of fools.”

Anxious to have the last word, the king dismissed the council. He bid Merlin follow him as he exited that musty room, walking quickly to avoid hearing any of the whispers that would surely break out the minute he was out the door. _For a bunch of pompous old men they sure gossip like bored housewives._

Merlin was eerily quiet as he dogged the king’s footsteps, as he often could be, these days. Over the years, the man’s temperament had morphed from boundless optimism to an assortment of moods so mercurial that Arthur had taken to thinking of them as separate personalities, each with their own unique quirks.  Broody Merlin — as Arthur called the current incarnation — couldn’t be bossed around or bantered with, unless you wanted to be met with chores done in sullen silence, or insults strangely barbed. No, he would come out of his shell on his own, given time and the right environment.

Arthur hopped down the castle steps, headed for a part of town that he didn’t often visit, except for special occasions. He chose an unusually circuitous route, for both of their sakes— walking through the lower town in spring, one was hard pressed to remain cheerless. The scent of blossoming honeysuckle covered up the city’s usual stink, and the hustle and bustle of the marketplace provided welcome relief from the cloistered dramas of the castle. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Arthur sensed a slight recession of the dark cloud enveloping his servant.

And so he wandered on, past the fruit-sellers and the florists; past the runaway chicken being chased by a gang of children; past the woman washing her clothes in the public fountain, and the crone haggling a merchant over the price of turnips. Eventually Merlin’s curiosity got the better of his sulk.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

Arthur’s lips quirked up in a grin— _Now was that so hard?_ He probably sounded a bit too pleased with himself when he answered, “The church.”

His manservant gave him a curious look. “I didn’t take you for the god-fearing type.”

“Are you calling me faithless? I’m not headed down there for a confession, if that’s what you're thinking.”

“Oh, no I would never think that.”  Arthur hummed in agreement, but then Merlin piped up with,  “What would you confess? You already blame me for all of your failings.”

A laugh burst unbidden from Arthur’s throat. “If you must know, I’m paying archbishop Benedict a visit.”

“The archbishop…” Merlin stopped to a standstill, though Arthur paid him no mind. “I’ve got it!” he yelled, suddenly running to catch up. “You mean to secure the support of the church— with the faith behind your marriage, it’s a deal harder to oppose.”

“Very good Merlin, you’ll make a statesman yet.”

“Har har. You’ll probably have him officiate it as well; get married in the big cathedral too.”

“…I hadn’t thought of that, actually.” Arthur would never admit to it, but his servant had a point— it would lend his marriage legitimacy, to be consecrated in the house of God, and the bishop would be reluctant to renege his support for a union that he himself had overseen. Not to mention that the church was far more splendid than the dreary throne room.

“You’re welcome, Sire,” came the lilting reply.  Arthur could hear the smile in Merlin's voice without looking.

* * *

Eventually the pair wound up at the cathedral gates, where Arthur’s father still held court. Perched on a stone plinth, Uther’s likeness dominated the scene, casting his long shadow over anyone seeking to enter the building. He was shrouded in a cloak of ermine, and more jewelry than Arthur had seen the man wear in his entire life. One hand gripped his sword pointing outward at his side; the other held a cross-topped staff, borne triumphantly aloft. His crown was encircled by a saintly halo, although his expression remained as unimpressed as ever. No doubt the sculptor knew the old king well, because even cast in stone, his father’s gaze was enough to send a frisson of fear and longing down his spine. Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being judged. _Judged and found wanting,_ said the voice in his head.

“What are the snakes supposed to be?”

Merlin always asked the oddest questions. Arthur peered at his servant askance— _All these years living in Camelot, have you never been to the church?_

Ever since the start of the Great Purge, Uther had embraced Christianity to hasten the elimination of the Old Religion from Camelot. The old king funded the construction of the chapels and abbeys that now dotted the landscape, and handed over valuable land to the monks. In return, those of the faith decried the plague of sorcery, destroyed temples, and trained witchfinders to hunt down the last vestiges of magic from the kingdom. Christianity was flourishing so mightily under his reign, that Camelot’s newly-minted archbishop commissioned this statue of him, with the moniker _King Uther the Pious_ emblazoned in gold lettering on the bottom.

Just atop the plinth, the king’s huge boots trod on a nest of vipers; necks squashed and jaws agape, the pitiful creatures seemed to moan and writhe in their death throes.

“The snakes, _Merlin_ , represent the successful cleansing of sorcerers and their ilk from the land; and are a reminder to us all to stay vigilant— as any child in Camelot could tell you.” Arthur removed his gloves and handed them to his manservant, before shaking off whatever strange spell the statue had cast on him and strolling up the cathedral steps. “Come along,” he said, absently gesturing for Merlin to follow.

Except that once again Merlin remained behind, standing still as the monument above him. His features had an unfamiliar eeriness to them, one the king couldn’t quite put his finger on. Arthur called after him again, and Merlin’s face melted into an insouciant grin as he hurried to catch up. It was like the strange look had never been there at all.

“Where’s your statue then? Or could they not find a block of marble big enough to fit your head?”

Arthur snorted. “To tell the truth, I don’t much fancy seeing myself be shat on by pigeons all day.”

“Interesting,” stated Merlin. Then, after a beat, “Maybe Gwen should erect one in the main square, to honor her royal husband.”

“Maybe Gwen should erect one of you, to honor of the castle idiot.”

Merlin laughed, “Gwen likes me far too much to do that.”

The king and his servant continued their bickering through the cathedral halls and all the way to the bishop’s office. However, that look would linger at the back of Arthur’s mind for the rest of the day. Much too late, he would realize what it was— a blankness. It reminded him of the haunted gaze of soldiers wrecked by war, or the unseeing eyes of the dead. only it seemed wildly out of place peering out from his friend’s youthful face.

* * *

That evening, the skies cracked open and sheets of rain began to fall on the streets of Camelot. All the sensible citizens stayed home for the night, breaking bread and telling stories by the light of their hearths. Some of the less sensible ones decided that the weather was the perfect excuse to stay a little longer at the tavern, and who could blame them.

As such, the streets were empty, save for one romantic fool of a king. Shielded only by a thick blue cloak, he hopped between patches of shelter, trekking mud on to people’s doorsteps as he zigzagged across the town, only to wind up at the old blacksmith’s house. He knocked— a little more fervently than necessary, but he was rather anxious to get out of the cold.  The door opened a crack, spilling buttery light out onto the street. Therather sodden-looking king pulled a bouquet from his cloak and plastered on his most charming smile.

“Arthur, is that you?” A pair of brown eyes appeared at the door, which she then tugged open. Guinevere in her lilac dress and shawl was a sight to behold, and Arthur was immediately enveloped in a feeling of warmth, despite the weather.

“Yes! I uh… brought you some flowers.” He proffered the bouquet, partly crushed by his haste in the rain. “Ah, I’m sorry they’re a little worse for wear,” he admitted.

“No, no don’t say that, they’re beautiful,” Arthur could think of nothing to say when Gwenwas smiling so sweetly. “Oh, where are my manners, come inside, please!” she said, pulling him into her home and shutting the door behind him.

“Thank you for the flowers, Arthur.” Amused by his gormless expression, Guinevere leaned in for a kiss. It was only a quick peck on the lips, but Arthur felt his heart almost beat out of his chest nonetheless. As he leant in for more, she took the bouquet out of his grasp, and bopped him on the nose for good measure. “I’ll just put them in water, shall I?” She arranged the flowers in a nearby vase, smiling cheekily all the while.

Arthur huffed a quick laugh, “Tease,” he mumbled, more fond than anything else. He took a seat on a wicker bench and watched her bustle about in comfortable silence, drinking in the warmth of her home. With the fire crackling merrily in the hearth, andhomemade throws scattered over every available surface, Arthur’s chambers seemed almost cold in comparison. Not for the first time, a seed of doubt niggled at a corner of his mind.

“Are you sure you want to marry me?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. _Christ, what a stupid thing to say._ Guinevere, who was carrying over two steaming cups of tea, placed them on the table in front of them before tucking herself into his side.

“Arthur,” she said, gently taking hold of his clenched hands. When he looked up, her brown eyes were sincere. “There’s no one I’d rather spend my life with.” She looked down for a second and hesitated, “—I know… I know that my life is going to change, drastically. And I don’t expect it to be easy, either. But I know that you’ll be with me every step of the way.”

Arthur took her hands in his and promised, “I won’t let you down, Guinevere. You have my word.“ She kissed him in earnest this time, let her eyes flutter closed and her hands tangle in his hair as Arthur pulled her close. “You’re going to be brilliant at it anyway,” he murmured, between kisses.

He felt Gwen’s lips curve upwards into a smile. She traced her hand down the curve of his neck, and looked down shyly. “I probably shouldn’t say this… this is going to sound awfully arrogant.”

Arthur scoffed a laugh at the idea, “I _highly_ doubt that,” he said.

Guinevere protested, “No, really! Arthur, I’m just a maidservant,”

“—And a smith,” he interrupted.

“And a smith,” she admitted, “but still—”

“You’re also a seamstress, and not half-bad with a sword. Not to mention one of the bravest, smartest, and most compassionate people I know. If anything you’re selling yourself short.”

Gwen was blushing rather adorably. She batted his arms away like a cat. “Honestly, Arthur, you don’t even know what I was going to say—”

“That you’re going to be an excellent ruler?” Arthur questioned, raising his eyebrows innocently.

“No, I— Well… Yes, actually. It’s ridiculous, and overconfident. I know nothing about statecraft, and all of the nobility are going to hate me… but—” Arthur was pleased to see that Gwen could still go on one of her little rambles, after all this time. She bit her lip, and stated, “but I can make the people love me. I know I can.”

Something about the way she said it seemed so certain, more certain than Arthur had ever been of himself. He cocked his head to the side, and pondered this strange woman before him— who was sometimes soft as satin, sometimes sharp as steel. “You already have plans, don’t you,” he realized. ”You know exactly what kind of queen you’re going to be.”

“All that time spent at court, I couldn’t help but pick up a few things. And between laundry and meals and chores… Well, I had a lot of time to think, that’s all.”

Arthur snorted, “Tell that to Merlin. He’s been doing all that for years and he still can’t tell his face from his own backside. I’m not sure the man’s had a coherent thought in his life.” He suddenly remembered something, “You know just yesterday I saw him talking to the rat that’s been infesting my rooms. He held the foul thing up to his face and actually talked to it, before releasing it _outside my door._ ”

Arthur honestly expected more of a reaction, but Gwen only smiled benignly, as if his manservant’s demented behavior was just par for the course. “Well, what did he say to it?” she pressed.

“He said — and I quote this verbatim — _Sycorax, let this be the last time I catch you here, alright? If I see you again I’ll have to drop you out the window._ Then he fed the damn thing a piece of cheese and told it there was plenty more for it in the room two corridors down, and three doors to the right.”

Gwen nodded pensively, “Hmm, specific. That’s got to be somebody’s quarters. I’d hate to the person who’s gotten on his bad side.”

“Merlin doesn’t have a bad side.” Arthur dismissed, “Anyway I think we’re digressing here, it’s not like the _rat_ is going to listen to him. It’ll be back in my rooms tomorrow, no doubt. Gwen, he _held it up to his face._ A _great stinking black rat_. Are you even listening to me?”

Shaking her head, his future wife giggled. “I am, I am,” she promised. “It’s just that— Merlin’s always been a bit of an odd duck, you know; he follows his own path. Although Sycorax is an interesting name for a rat.”

Arthur groaned, embarrassed by his own tendency to get sucked into his manservant’s weird conspiracies, even though he was pretty sure that Merlin only said stuff like this to wind him up. “I asked him about it, believe it or not,” he admitted. “Merlin said that it was the name _she_ wanted to be known by. Sycorax being a she, apparently.”

Guinevere hummed in approval. “Sounds about right. I think that’s one of the things that I’m going to change.”

“The name of the rat?” asked the king, completely incredulous.

“No, silly,” she laughed. “Merlin’s position. He has worked far too hard and too long for the meagre wages you pay him.”

Arthur sputtered in offense, “Are you calling me a miser? I pay him decently. It’s not my fault he’s been wearing the same tatty clothes as long as I’ve known him.”

“Maybe so, but he still deserves… something. I’ll add it to the my list of reforms to make.”

“Oh so there’s a list, now, is there? When do I get to see it?”

“Hmm. It’s a surprise. A woman’s got to have some secrets, after all.”

“I’ve got a surprise of my own for you. We’re getting married in the cathedral.”

Guinevere gave him a pensive look. “The cathedral… How did you manage to get the archbishop’s blessing? I thought Benedict was very traditional.”

Arthur hummed as he nuzzled into her hair. Benedict may be traditional, but he was also ambitious; anxious to prove himself after his predecessor’s success. Arthur decided not to let on about the deal he finagled with the man just yet. “He owes a lot my my father,” he said, which was also true.

Guinevere seemed to glean something from his reticence anyway, because she gently tilted his head to face her, saying, “You didn’t have to do that for me. But thank you.” Then her smile turned a little sly. “I’ve some ideas of my own, for the people to really accept you as their king… Do you think we could have the wedding over the midsummer festival? Invite the whole kingdom if you can.”

_Midsummer? What are you planning, my love._ Whatever it was, Arthur found that he wasn’t worried about it either way. If he and Gwen were going to rule together, it was time he started trusting her decisions. “Very well. A summer wedding it is. We’re going to be the biggest event in the five kingdoms.” He picked up one of the cups in a toast. “Here’s to Arthur and Guinevere: the most _resplendent_ monarchs Camelot has ever seen.”

Gwen snorted as she picked up her own, “I’m not saying that.” Clinking their cups, she said this instead, “Here’s to you and me; and the rest of our lives together.”

“To the rest of our lives, together.”

And in that moment, cocooned in the embrace of his wife to be; Arthur knew that the dark clouds outside were just a passing dream, and anything was possible.


	2. Merlin

_Arthur and Gwen are getting married. That’s fine. They’re my best friends and they love each other very much. I’m happy for them, really. Everything is fine._

It was a beautiful morning in Camelot and everything was fine. Garlands of roses and carnations were hung throughout the castle, filling the air with a sweet scent that was not at all cloying. Merlin stalked — _no,_ _walked, briskly walked_ — though the corridors balancing a tray that served honey glazed capon, scrambled eggs, fresh bread, and a spiced apple tart. His features was schooled into the regular expression of idiotic good cheer. It was so convincing that most of the flowers wilted in his wake.

_Huh. I guess that brings new meaning to the term, “withering glare”. Not that it matters, though, because everything is fine._ He tried to glare a bit more cheerfully at a few of the listless blossoms, willing them to rejuvenate. A couple of the carnations started to perk up, but quickly dropped their gazes to the floor at the sight of Merlin’s twisted grin. A _m I smiling, or just baring teeth?_

Merlin decided that the flowers were a lost cause and headed onwards, grateful that none of the other servants were around to witness his display of traitorous, but entirely unimpressive sorcery.

_I expect they’re all out having fun at the fair. Which is fine. It’s just that I’m always so busy. I’m so busy I haven’t had time to eat._ Merlin snatched the tart off the tray and stuffed it in his mouth, sulkily. The tart was absolutely luxurious. The spiced apple perfectly sweet and crisp; tasting of long summer days in the orchards; the trees with bright coins of sunlight through them, and hung with fat dewdrop apples just waiting to be plucked. Merlin even thought he could hear the gentle sound of running water— the muddy brook which was the lifeblood of the garden. He suddenly couldn’t stand being inside. _Only three days left of celebrations and Arthur expects me to be serving on all of them._

Merlin kicked open the door to Arthur’s chambers, before dropping the breakfast tray on the table with a satisfying clang. ****

“I need the day off,” he declared.

Arthur didn’t even look up, just hummed from his patch of light by the window. Arms crossed and gazing out into the courtyard, the king looked painfully beautiful in an unreachable sort of way; a roman statue in repose. He opened his regal mouth to speak: “Just because the knights are out day-drinking doesn’t mean you get to slack off as well, _Merlin_.” Suddenly Merlin remembered what a prat he actually was.

The servant walked up behind the king and peered over his shoulder. Sure enough, Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan were in the courtyard. Arm in arm, and ale in hand, they were welcoming carts of costumed performers into Camelot with a round of song. Merlin couldn’t quite make it out, but if Elyan’s hand gestures were anything to go by, it was delightfully bawdy.

_Gods, how could anyone work under these conditions?_ He took a deep breath. “The thing is…” he began, but a juggler was now standing on Percival’s shoulders, throwing pins in the air as the big man stumbled giddily around.

“Yes, Merlin?” inquired the king.

“Hm? Oh. The thing is I need to be there for Gaius. He’s swamped with all the visitors for your wedding. Not to mention there’ll be injuries from the tournament. And the with the current spate of food poisoning…”

“Food poisoning?” Arthur quirked an eyebrow. Luckily Merlin had refined evading his master’s suspicion into a fine art. He honestly quite enjoyed it.

“Oh yes,” he said, with practiced innocence. “Something off about the latest shipment of fish from Meredor. A quarter of the lower town either has the runs, or is vomiting their guts out. It’s not even food poisoning, really— Gaius says he found a new kind of worm… wriggling in the vomit.” Merlin wriggled his fingers for emphasis, before jerking his thumb in the direction of the door. “I could go get one if you’d like to see it?”

Arthur’s face was a battlefield of warring emotions. In his eyes, skepticism; his wrinkled lip, disgust. He sighed. “No… I don’t want to see your worm. I expect you back at work tomorrow then.”  


Merlin crushed the grin that was itching to make itself known. He cast his eyes down, shrugging with a feigned innocence that he knew was _pushing it_. “Can’t. Gillian the brewer is due tomorrow and we’re short a midwife. So unless you want me turning up smelling like blood and fish guts and sh—”

“Enough,” Arthur held up a hand. “Take the next two days off. But… ”

Arthur crept into Merlin’s space until his face was only inches away. “If I see you engaging in any sort of…. revelry…”

“I’ll be out of your hair and in the stocks before you can say, _Merlin you impudent wretch, I’ll have you in the stocks for this,_ ” Merlin intoned in his best impression of the king.

Arthur looked slightly taken aback, “Glad to see that you’re learning, for once. I don’t sound like that though.”

“Of course not, your majesty.”

That earned a warm chuckle from the king, as if using Arthur’s proper title was the funniest thing his servant could do.

After Arthur had been fed and watered and debriefed on the day’s tasks, Merlin returned to his room and dug up the musty old spell book from under his bed.  While the sorcerer doubted that Arthur would ever throw him in the stocks, even if he was caught slacking off, it was probably best to exercise some caution. Gaius was always telling him to be more careful anyway. _Perhaps I need a disguise_ , he thought. Unfortunately he couldn’t very well show up as Dragoon again, what with being wanted for regicide. The young man opened his spell book and flipped through it looking for something a little more _fun_.

* * *

Two hours later Merlin bursts forth from his room sporting a bold new look.

Gaius looks like he has aged a decade in a second. “Someday Merlin, you really are going to be the death of me.”

“I think I look rather dashing. And that’s _Robin_ to you.” The newly-christened Robin gave a little twirl, enjoying the way her yellow skirts flared around her ankles.

Gaius didn’t seem quite sure how to respond to that. He took a seat on the bench, and exhaled, “…another bird?”

“What’s wrong with birds?”

“Nothing. It’s just… Your magic is made for great things, Merlin. You shouldn’t waste it on frivolous activities, what if you’re discovered?”

Merlin frowned. “I just have _so much_ of it, Gaius, you don’t know what it’s _like_. I can feel it spilling out of me— if I don’t use my magic I think I’ll burst. Besides,” she leant against the table. “I just need a break sometimes, you know?”

Her mentor’s face softened. “I know. But I’ll always worry after you, too.”

Merlin knew she wasn’t the easiest charge, and had caused Gaius many a sleepless night. But he always accepted her, after everything. She felt a rush of affection for him in that moment. Without thinking, she reached out for his cheek, and, leaning down— gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead.

A moment of silence, then the pair burst into peals of laughter.

“Gods Merlin, you’re just full of surprises today,” said Gaius, as he wheezed for breath.

“It just… it just seemed like the sort of thing women do— oh I don’t know.” Merlin hid her face in her hands, then decided just to roll with it. “And it’s _Robin_ , don’t you forget.” With that she turned to find a mirror; she hadn’t had a good look at herself since the transformation.

Long black curls spilled out in every direction, framing features that were subtly changed— her nose a little smaller, forehead less pronounced, jawline slimmer — but she didn’t feel so different. _I still feel like me_ , she decided. _But a different side of me._

“Gaius, do you think anyone will recognize me?”

“As long as you cover those ears, you’ll be fine,” the old man piped up, without looking; he had gone back to bottling willow-bark tonics on the counter.

Laughing, Robin turned back to the mirror to inspect her teeth. “I am going to be fine. Although I still need a little dash of color. I think I’ll do my lips in red.”

“Only if you want to look like a _belle-de-nuit._ ”

“A what now?”

“It’s what they call a woman of the night, over in Gaul.”

Robin smiled to herself. Gaius had never commented on her appearance before, but _now_ he has opinions? She shrugged. “But I’m a woman of the daytime, in Albion.”

The old physician couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Robin was trying to braid her hair when she heard his soft footsteps approach. “Here,” he said, holding out her ragged red neckerchief, he gave a small smile at her questioning look, “It’s a dash of color. And…you don’t seem quite complete without it.”

_You really are far too sweet for your own good._ She took the neckerchief; after a brief moment of indecision, tied it around as a hairband. A few errant locks broke through regardless.

“Just… Be careful will you?” Gaius picked up last of the tonics. They tinkled gently as he stored them on a nearby shelf. “Oh, and Robin,” he added, “Would you mind handling patients for the next couple of hours before the tournament starts? There’s someone I need to see.”

Robin had some suspicions as to who this _someone_ might be. Although her kind are still persecuted, they weren’t pursued with the same kind of zeal as they were under Uther’s reign. Perhaps it was enough for a trickle of magic to return to Camelot. “Just run along and don’t keep her waiting. I’ll handle everything.”

“Thank you Robin. And whoever said they were a _her_?”, came the cagey reply. The physician packed up his belongings and made to leave, but was stopped by Robin’s hand on his sleeve.

“I don’t know… Keep your secrets then,” she laughed. Robin procured two wreaths of golden daffodils from thin air; placing one of them gently on her mentor’s head, she said, “Be well Gaius. You and your _someone._ ” She pushed the other wreath into his hands. Robin expected admonishment for her careless use of magic, but although the old man seemed a little surprised at first, his expression soon gentled into a wistful smile as he accepted the flowers.

Gaius lightly grasped Robin’s wrist in gratitude, and stated with certainty, “We will. All will be well, in time.” 

He let her arm slip from his hold as he turned to leave. Robin tried to hold tight onto his comforting words, but when he was gone she still couldn’t shake the feeling of creeping emptiness that seemed to plague her in the quiet moments. _Well, idle hands and all that._ She set about her usual duties— rolling bandages, replenishing medicines and recording what ingredients needed restocking. The familiarity of the routine was soothing, as was the scent of the drying herbs that hung bundled by the fireplace. There was simple pleasure to be found in a physician’s calling.

Hardly anyone came in while she was there, besides a few folks looking for Gaius’ famous hangover remedy — _yes, it still tastes like fermented bog-water —_ and the ever-anxious Lord Ector looking for his prescription of sleeping draught — _chamomile, valerian, and St John’s wort — it’s the same tincture as last time, Gaius assured me — just be careful not to drink more than one glass of wine if you’ll be taking it._ The young lord looked even more disconsolate than usual, with shadows round his eyes and a tense set to his thin shoulders. Robin took pity on him and asked him if he’d like to stay for some sweet tea. He seemed desperately grateful for the offer; she suspected other people didn’t often spend time with him voluntarily. _How bad can he really be? Even Arthur was a pariah when I met him._ Robin mixed fresh milk and sweetened rosewater in a couple of mugs, which they sat by the window to sip.

She started to regret her kindness as Ector regaled her with his troubles. The youngest son of a youngest son with no fortune of his own, Ector had claimed the position of Royal Treasurer, no doubt expecting to use his mean talents in arithmetic to improve his standing at court. He wasn’t half-bad at his job either, if only he would quit _whining_ about it.

He complained about the tax rates: _too high, the king will drive the lords into destitution._ He complained about the laws regarding tithes: _too lax, the serfs mock us by paying in withered wheat, lame chickens and dried-up milkless_ cows. But most of all he complained about the cost of the wedding: _tournaments aren’t cheap, neither are feasts, acrobats, or musicians_.

Annoying as Ector was, Robin was actually inclined to agree with him on that last point, a whole week of celebrations was unusually hedonistic, even for Arthur. But Ector cut her off before she could respond.

“And that _woman._ I could almost bear it if wasn’t for that _peasant whore_ ,” spat the young lord.

Robin wanted to feel shocked, but the truth was that Lord Ector’s sentiments were shared by many amongst the upper classes. Instead, the sorcerer felt a cold certainty settle in her breast— _I will see you removed from court, one way or another_. For Gwen’s sake she’d happily replace the whole lot of them.

Seemingly unaware of his physician’s epiphany, Ector rambled on, running a clammy hand through his mousy hair, “What kind of precedent does she set? If a serving girl can be Queen, what’s to stop any half-wit commoner from stealing our God-given inheritances?” After a pause he seemed to come to a conclusion, and with one hand still in his hair and a crazed gleam in his eye, stated, “It’s a foul portent. The servants smile to our faces, but sharpen their knives behind our backs.”

He was probably right, as behind her rather affixed expression of mild interest, Robin was currently plotting his demise in a variety of colorful ways. _Who will take your place Ector? I think even Ralf the pig boy could fill your shoes._ Granted, Ralf probably couldn’t read or write, but it was the principle of the thing that mattered. _S_ he folded her hands across her knees; tilting her head, she asked in a dangerously light voice, “Is that so?”

Before Ector could reply, the door creaked open, and all Robin’s thoughts of murder and mayhem were extinguished by the entrance of her favorite knight.

“Gwaine!”, she exclaimed, standing up so quickly that Ector almost dropped his mug.

The knight in question started sputtering defensively, “I’m working on it, I promise! I’ll pay you back as soon as I— wait… Do I know you?”

“No, but I’m getting to know you already, Sir Gwaine,” laughed Robin. “Do you owe money to every young maiden in town?”

“Only the charming ones.” He swept into an exaggerated bow. With a roguish grin, he looked up and questioned, “So forgive me for thinking you one of my creditors… My Lady—? ”

“I am no lady, Sir knight, just a traveling physician, here to assist Gaius during the wedding celebrations.” Gwaine’s imploring look did not falter. “You can call me Robin,” she tacked on, rather belatedly.

“Excellent. Robin, I find I’m rather in need of your help today.” Gwaine walked in made himself quite at home on the main bench. Lord Ector, to his credit, showed some awareness of his increasing irrelevance, and politely dismissed himself from the room.

“God I hate that guy,” stated Gwaine upon his exit. “Did I save you from one of his horrible rants?”

“ _So_ horrible,” she confessed. The knight nodded sagely. As Robin made her way towards him, she continued, “I was considering poisoning his tea. Anyway— how can I help you today?”

“Remind me never to piss you off,” said Gwaine, voice colored with amusement. “I’m fighting in the tournament — the melee, not the joust, that’s rich people shite — and my bad shoulder is acting up again; an old battle wound that still gives me pain.” He winced as he rolled his left shoulder back. As Robin went to fetch the bandages, pain relief tonic, and muscle ointment, Gwaine asked, “How do you know my name anyway? Is my infamy spreading?” He sounded much too pleased about that.

Robin set the tonic down in front of Gwaine and gestured for him to take his shirt off. After he obliged, and had gulped down the foul-tasting liquid, she began to rub the ointment into his shoulder. “I’m a friend of Merlin’s.” Gwaine hummed happily in response, either satisfied with that explanation, or else just enjoying the massage. “Merlin told me all about you, you know. I even know that you sustained this so-called _battle wound_ when you drunkenly fell off an apple cart.”

Gwaine scoffed, “Ah, and what a noble fall it was. Bards will tell the tale.” He stretched his good arm out, fingers splayed, and gazed longingly into the distance. “The song will be called, The Battle of the Apple Cart: where Camelot’s hungriest knight was overcome by the forces of two — no _three_ hundred — deadly apples.”

A giggle found it’s way up the young physician’s throat. She missed this. It seemed like she hardly had any more time to spend with her friends, between Merlin’s duties and his destiny. She continued to tease Gwaine, “What story will the song tell? Of how the brave knight’s foes crashed upon his head in waves, but each time he tried to stand, he slipped on one of the fallen, and tumbled into another bushel.”

“Maybe they shouldn’t call me Sir Gwaine the Strong. From now on, I will be known as Sir Gwaine of the Apple Cart,” stated the knight.

“Sir Gwaine the Cider-Addled, more like,” laughed Robin.

“Sir Gwaine of the Bruised Head.”

Robin pushed a little bit of magic into his shoulder as she finished up, to hasten the healing. The two of them bantered as old friends while she wrapped his shoulder tightly in linen (as well as his wrist, which he had somehow managed to _sprain,_ the fool), and Robin agreed to lock up and come watch his performance in the melee ( _I have no other supporters,_ claimed Gwaine. _Merlin’s always busy_ ).

Although the sorcerer felt a pang of regret for deceiving her friend, it was quickly overtaken by the blossoming warmth in her chest as they headed down to the fair together. Hand-in-hand, and through corridors brimming with wilted flowers, the two revelers set off in a waltz; dancing to the tune of music heard only by them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to being gender-neutral and another bird, Robin is also the name of the mischievous fairy from the real A Midsummer Night’s Dream, so it seemed appropriate.
> 
> You know, now, I'm thinking— why didn't I write the whole thing before posting it? No, I had to wing it chapter by chapter. Past me is an idiot.


End file.
